


the gaze is a singular act

by witching



Series: a strange sphere of medicine [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Awkward Conversations, Begging, Blow Jobs, Crying, Dirty Talk, Emotional Baggage, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post MAG56, Praise Kink, Season/Series 02, Semi-Public Sex, Service Top, Sweet/Hot, Tender Sex, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: “so you – don’t mind?”"to be quite honest, martin, i'm… i'm really rather relieved."// a deeply paranoid jon goes prying into things, inadvertently finds more than he anticipated, uncovers the following: deep, dark secrets; deeper, darker secrets; buried resentment; unspoken affection; latent desires; and the perfect method of apology for insensitive and distrustful behavior.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: a strange sphere of medicine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765900
Comments: 23
Kudos: 370





	the gaze is a singular act

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is for my dear friend [**gabe**](disasterfag.tumblr.com), who requested ‘trans bottom martin with so much sweet dirty praise’, and how could i not write that, honestly. it was inspired.  
> find me on tumblr [**here**](martindykewood.tumblr.com) to talk abt martin. i love to talk abt martin.  
> standard disclaimer #1: i am a trans person but im not transmasc, i always try to be informed abt the experiences im writing and value the insight of ppl who know it firsthand. terms used for martins body in this fic: pussy, cunt, clit, hole, and one (1) offhand mention of tits.  
> standard disclaimer #2: i conceptualize jons relationship to sex as a messy and complicated thing where the important factors are trust and comfort rather than whatever Attraction means. and he hasnt been comfortable for a long time, and he doesnt trust very many ppl at all, and martin is the first person in a long time that he really Wants in that way. this is all to say that it really is a lot to discuss and theyre gna communicate healthily abt it as they go.

_in a world myriad as ours, the gaze is a singular act: to look at something is to fill your whole life with it, if only briefly._  
_// ocean vuong, "on earth we're briefly gorgeous"_

* * *

"So you – don’t mind?”

"To be quite honest, Martin, I'm… I'm really rather relieved."

The words ring in Martin's ears like the suspended moment between being hit and feeling the pain of the blow, like whiplash, like a penny in the air. He's so deeply _confused_ that there's hardly room for any other feelings in him, but he manages to cram in some fear, embarrassment, guilt, and his own fair share of relief, plus the near-constant low thrum of arousal that always gets louder when Jon is near. It's quite a tight squeeze, in whatever part of Martin holds his feelings.

Which is why all he really wants is for Jon to leave, go back to his office so Martin can process what's just happened. So he can maybe have a short cry about it before making some tea and getting back to work. So he can take a few deep breaths and splash some cold water on his face and give himself a stern talking to in order to calm the heat pooling in his gut.

But Jon doesn't leave. He turns to go, but before he can take even a single step in the direction that will leave Martin with some of his dignity intact, he pulls up short, spins back around on his heel, and looks at Martin with an unfathomable, unprecedented look in his eyes. 

"Are you –," he pauses and inhales sharply, like he's in pain, like he's lost and trying to swallow his pride long enough to ask for directions. "Martin, are you alright?"

It's so very far from what Martin was expecting that he can't help a short, abrupt laugh. Seeing Jon's face, he quickly reins it in. He looks deadly serious, almost more so than two minutes ago when he was slamming his hand on the table and shouting at him, so Martin clears his throat and schools his expression into something somber.

"Why?" he asks, trying not to sound defensive, but that's hard when he always feels like he has to defend himself to Jon. There's always something that Jon thinks he’s done wrong, and Martin is fully aware of his level of professional acuity, aware of it to the point of self-loathing at times, but even he is willing to admit that Jon is harsh on him, far more than his bumbling incompetence calls for. So, he tells himself, something is definitely going on here, and he can’t simply take Jon’s question at face value, because Jon doesn’t _do_ that, doesn’t say things like that, not to Martin.

He tries not to let himself think about what it would mean if Jon did just genuinely want to make sure he was okay. He tries not to let that thought travel the express route from his brain to between his legs, making him throb with desire, reminding him how ridiculously easy it is to make him a quivering mess. He tries not to let those thoughts distract him from Jon’s answer to his question.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jon blows out a deep breath through his teeth, brushes his hair out of his face with his hand. "I just – I realize that… my being agitated, my… confronting you like that, was likely a bit – a bit harrowing for you," he says, stilted and strained, like a politician publicly apologizing for a tasteless comment that he doesn't actually regret in the least. "I simply want to make sure that it won't affect your work going forward."

And there it is. It's awful, of course, a terribly insensitive thing to say at the moment, but it's such a relief to hear it that Martin swears he actually feels a bit of the anxious energy melting from his body. Because it's so _Jon,_ normal Jon like he used to be, back when this was just a job and Martin was just an unqualified assistant and Jon was just a disgruntled archivist. It's not an accusation of murder or a paranoid interrogation or a dodgy excuse; it's just Jon.

Then again, in the place of that fleeing bit of anxiety comes another pulse of sharp heat in his cunt. _Just Jon_ is exactly the Jon he fell in love with, exactly the Jon he misses constantly these days, exactly the Jon he adamantly refuses to think of when he’s getting himself off. 

At some point, Martin realizes Jon is expecting him to answer. "Oh, er, yeah," he mumbles nervously, "I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Are you _sure?"_ Jon asks.

There’s a quiet sort of buzzing in the back of Martin’s skull, like the beginnings of a tension headache but without the pain. He opens his mouth to reassure Jon that really, he's alright, because that's what Martin does, that's who Martin is. He takes a breath, and he puts on his practiced fake smile, and he looks Jon in the eye, fully prepared to lie to him to avoid upsetting him and get him on his way.

And then Martin says, "No, actually, I'm not."

For a long moment, Jon just stares, his mouth hanging open, and Martin stares back, his mouth hanging open even wider. When he pushes through his shock and embarrassment and gains the presence of mind to form words, Martin falls immediately into his well-worn habits.

"No, wait, I'm sorry, I don't – I don't know why I, erm, why I said that," he stammers, tripping over his tongue in his rush to compensate for the transgression of answering a question truthfully. "I'm fine, really, it – it's alright, don't worry about it. I’m okay."

"No, you aren't," Jon objects, defeated and ashamed. "God, I'm sorry, Martin, I just – I shouldn't have – I'm sorry."

"Jon, it's _fine,"_ Martin protests again.

Jon narrows his eyes, folds his arms across his chest, looks at Martin like a specimen under a microscope. "It’s not fine, Martin,” he insists, his voice going a bit high and desperate. “Why do you look like you’re about to cry?"

What a question, Martin thinks. Half a dozen answers spring to mind like snakes from a can, and he has to think hard about how to respond. He considers telling Jon that he's always one wrong word away from bursting into tears, and an upbraiding from a direct supervisor is a surefire way to push him over that edge, and that's especially the case when Jon is involved. All of these things are true. He considers telling Jon that Mercury is in retrograde. This is not true.

Apparently, he takes too long to think, because Jon clears his throat pointedly. _"Martin,"_ he implores, "I know you do this – this thing where you downplay your own feelings to spare others the trouble of worrying about you. Don’t do that. Tell me the truth.”

"Alright, Jon!" Martin snaps, a bit hysterical as the buzzing in his head returns, louder than before. "The – the _truth_ is that I've been losing sleep over this lie for _years,_ I’m already anxious all the time about _everything,_ and your, your – whatever you're going through, it has everyone even more on edge lately, so of _course_ I’m not fine."

"I'm –,"

"No, I'm talking now. You asked for the truth, I'm going to tell you the bloody truth," says Martin, leveling Jon with a glare that could melt glass. "I don't – I don't respond well to being ambushed with wild accusations. Nobody does! You _know_ how much I value your opinion, you know how much it – it _hurts_ when you're disappointed in me, or, or upset with me. You can’t pretend you don’t know how your actions affect me, Jon."

"Martin –,"

"Shut _up,_ Jon. You can't just come barging in here, dressing me down for an honest mistake, and really a rather small one at that, and then force me to tell you one of my deepest secrets, putting my job at risk, and then suddenly decide that you care about my _feelings._ You knew when you started this that it would upset me, and you did it anyway, so the least you could do is _go away_ so I can be _not fine_ by myself."

When he stops talking, Jon looks at him for a long time, expecting him to start up again, but he doesn't. "I'm sorry," Jon murmurs eventually. "I didn't think – I wasn't thinking. You want me to leave?"

It's only half a question; he _knows_ the answer, Martin's just told him. He's already turning to go when Martin says, against all his best judgment and his conscious autonomy over his own words, "Not really, no."

Jon spins around to face him, eyes wide. "But you just –," he begins, but Martin cuts him off once again.

"Sorry, no, yeah," he mumbles hastily as he regains control of his tongue, "you can go."

"Don't apologize," Jon snaps at him, then quickly composes himself to continue, calmer and kinder but still so frightfully intense, like he’s speaking with three voices at once. "I'm confused, is all. I just – do you want me to leave or not?"

"No," Martin answers without hesitation, the word leaving him before he can even register that faint buzzing in his head. He chalks it up to hormones, his go-to answer for inexplicable behavior these days, from his irritability to the stubborn, persistent _need_ pulsing through him with every heartbeat. "But you can go, if you want," he repeats nervously, looking down and away. "I'm just being – I don't know."

Jon nods his head, his lips pursed, and narrows his eyes in thought. "Right," he says in the tone one uses to discuss a sports game when one doesn’t care for either of the teams. Then, shrewd and penetrating: "Why don’t you want me to leave?"

The buzzing reaches a fever pitch in Martin’s head, like a wave building, like a root-deep toothache, like the second’s warning of rising bile before an unexpected vomit, and the words feel much the same coming out. “I’m just – I’m _extremely_ turned on right now, and I would really rather you stick around and take care of that, seeing as it’s your fault.”

The reaction is immediate and sharp, Jon’s voice cutting down to the core of him with a very simple, “Sorry, what?”

His face burning, Martin tries quite valiantly to stop talking, to no avail. “Well, n-not _entirely_ your fault, I suppose,” he says in a nervous rush, as if anything he says now can save him some face, as if he can pry the nails out of this coffin. “I mean, it’s kind of – it’s the hormones,” he says, “but you – you make it worse.”

“I don’t – I don’t understand,” Jon says, sounding less sure of himself than Martin has ever heard him.

“Which part?” asks Martin, suddenly feeling a bit bad for him. Just a bit.

“Erm.” Jon shuffles his feet and gnaws at his lower lip. “The part about me? What do you mean, I make it worse?”

It takes a moment for Martin to register the words, busy as he is thinking about how it should be _him_ biting Jon’s lip. “I just mean, you know. With the – the testosterone, everything’s already dialed up to eleven. And then, being around you… you bring it up to, like… twenty,” he explains rather lamely.

Jon only stares at him, uncomprehending, his brow furrowed in confusion, and Martin heaves an exasperated sigh. This time, he keeps talking entirely of his own volition, offering up even more mortifying personal information out of some twisted sort of masochism, or possibly hope. “I can’t believe I have to…” he mutters, trailing off with a huff of an exhale. “I’m just – I mean, you’re – okay. I’m _very_ into you, in every possible way. And I sort of have a thing for – being told off, I guess, just a bit, but you know – enough to make _any_ interaction with you difficult. Hence my current situation.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, quiet and contemplative.

“Christ, Jon, you don’t have to be sorry,” Martin scoffs, giving him a look similar to the one he always gets when he talks about his childhood, the it’s-not-your-fault puppy eyes and head cocked to the side. “You couldn’t have known, and it’s not like you could have done much about it if you had. It’s just – you know, chemicals. Biology.”

“No, I mean,” Jon pauses, swallows hard. “I mean I’m sorry for treating you that way. I didn't realize it was so… constant. You don’t deserve that.”

Martin blinks at him once, twice, and clears his throat awkwardly. "Right," he says in a slow, measured voice. "That's worse, actually."

"What?" Jon looks at him like he's grown a third arm, brows pulled up and together, mouth twisted into a soft little grimace that makes Martin want nothing more than to kiss it right off his face. 

"Being nice to me," Martin clarifies. "It's worse than the – than the other thing. I mean, it's _nice,_ I appreciate it, but… as far as my, er, problem. It's worse."

He thinks of Jon’s dark eyes exhausted and underlined by deep circles, a tired smile appearing just briefly, fleetingly, as Jon looks up from his desk and thanks him ever so gently for bringing him a cup of tea. That smile has sustained Martin for weeks, warming his heart and other parts in equal measure.

There's a long, heavy pause wherein Martin considers this, his face heating up to the temperature of the sun, which ends only when Jon takes an abrupt, halting step toward him. Martin flinches, shrinking back, and Jon freezes in his tracks, and they lock eyes.

"Let me make it up to you," Jon says simply, his eyes burning a hole in Martin's skin. "Let me stay and take care of you."

Martin swallows nervously with an audible gulp, his mouth suddenly very dry, and he can’t hold back a soft whimper at the prospect. His exact words were _stick around and take care of that,_ businesslike and impersonal, but the way Jon phrases it is so much sweeter.

Apprehension sits heavy on his mind, a wet blanket as always. "Is that what you want?" he asks, quiet and timid. "I mean, this is… weird, you know that, right? You can't just go around doing things like that because you feel bad for yelling at people."

Jon shakes his head, lips tugging up just slightly at the corners, and takes another step toward him. "It's not that," he assures Martin hastily. "I do appreciate you, Martin, and I haven't… acted like it, much. I haven’t been willing to admit it to myself, much less to you, and I think I owe that to you. But more than that, I – I think – I rather like that I can affect you like this," he settles on. "I'd like to see what else I can do."

Martin's chest tightens at the words and a low whine threatens to bubble up from his throat. "You can do whatever you want," he says without thinking.

His smile turning wolfish, Jon circles around the table and comes to a stop right before his chair. "Martin," he purrs, voice suddenly low and dangerous and playful, "I think you know better than to give me that much power."

"No," Martin replies instantly, "I don't. You know me, just… no sense at all."

"You don't believe that," Jon admonishes. 

"You do, though," says Martin, staring at the floor. "You tell me all the time."

Jon nods slowly, a guilty grimace pasted on his face. "I didn't mean – I was _wrong,_ Martin, and I wasn't – I mean. There's no excuse for it, of course, but… I _was_ judging you based on the assumption that you had a master's in parapsychology. Given that you don't have a degree at all, your work has been… quite exemplary. Impressive, really."

"Oh," Martin tries to say, but it comes out as little more than a breathy squeaking sound. "Thank you?"

"Do you – Martin, do you want me to touch you?"

“I thought –,” Martin shakes his head in confusion, swallows, clears his throat. “I thought you didn’t… do that.”

“I don’t do it _often,”_ Jon agrees with a shrug, “but to be honest, that’s mostly because I rarely find someone who affects me quite the way you do. I’d like to do it with you, if you’re amenable.”

Breath catching in his throat, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, Martin can only look at Jon for a long moment, expecting him to take it back, or say something to clarify that he doesn’t mean what Martin thinks he means, or maybe just leave. He does not do any of those things. What he does is meet Martin’s eyes with a deep crease between his brows, biting his lip and waiting in suspense for a response.

And, well. Martin’s always been eager to please, so if Jon wants an answer… "Fuck, yes, please,” Martin blurts out. “Always."

Smiling once again, Jon leans in so very close, plants his hands firmly on the arms of Martin's chair, and kisses him. It's clumsy, a bit wooden, but Martin can hardly complain about it. He's dreamt of this for years, and he never imagined Jon would be any kind of kissing aficionado. It may be a mess, but it's perfect because it's happening.

The kiss doesn't last very long, just a few seconds of lips on lips. Martin's eyes go wide and stay that way while Jon's slide shut as he moves in, pressing their lips together with a crushing force, before pulling away in slow motion. When he does open his eyes, still only an inch from Martin's face, he stares into Martin's eyes with a deep, dark heat in his gaze.

"Wow," Martin whispers, his voice cracking. 

"Good wow?" Jon asks, and he almost looks genuinely anxious, like he's actually afraid Martin will reject him, even now.

Martin wouldn't dream of it, not in a million years. _"Very_ good wow," he says. "You didn't need to…"

He doesn't get the rest of his sentence out of his mouth, because Jon is kissing him again, fierce and passionate this time, emboldened. His hands move from the arms of the chair to the sides of Martin's face, cradling his cheeks with a firm hold, like he thinks Martin might disappear. He traces the seam of Martin's lips with the tip of his tongue, and Martin opens up easily for him, sucking Jon's tongue into his mouth with enthusiasm.

Tentatively, Martin moves his hands to Jon's waist, squeezes his thin frame with the most gentle of touches. Jon groans, pulls back, rubs his thumbs along the high curves of Martin's cheeks.

"What do you want?" he asks, soft as anything, and Martin forgets most everything he's ever wanted.

"I – I – anything, Jon, fuck. What do _you_ want?"

Blinking slowly, Jon licks his lips and gives a thoughtful little hum. "I want… I want to show you just how much I appreciate you."

Martin takes a deep breath, looks up and down the length of Jon's body, and – he's a twig, Jon is, but so _gangly,_ nearly six feet of limbs and edges. Martin wants to know every inch of him. He swallows loudly and nods his head, and Jon raises his eyebrows at that, steps back and extends a hand to him.

He takes it, a shiver running through him at the way Jon's long fingers grip his hand, and lets himself be pulled to his feet. Before Martin has time to ensure that his footing is stable, Jon has his other hand pressed against his back, pulling him in, like the scandalous closeness of a couple at a public dance. 

It’s embarrassing how easily Martin leans into him, whimpering at the warmth of his chest through his shirt. Jon extricates his fingers from Martin’s and moves his hands with an assured confidence to the hem of Martin’s sweater, making him melt instantly. Martin leans back just enough to let Jon lift the sweater over his head, watching with rapt attention as he sets it neatly on the table.

For the first time, it occurs to Martin that they are still at work, in an old document storage room similar to the one Martin stayed in when he was living here. He did think it was bizarre when Jon asked him to come here to talk, but he wasn’t in a position to question it. Jon probably didn’t want anybody overhearing his raving conspiracy theories. Martin finds he’s rather thankful for it now, the privacy it affords them and the distance from where their friends are still working away, oblivious to this.

Then, of course, Martin isn’t thinking about any of that at all, because Jon’s fingers are hovering over the button of his pants and Jon is giving him a questioning look, asking permission. He nods fervently, releasing a breath he’s been holding, and again keeps his eyes trained on Jon’s hands as he undresses Martin. It’s simple enough, somehow coordinated without discussion, the way Martin kicks his shoes off and Jon slides his pants and boxers down and places them neatly with his sweater before stepping back and just taking a long look at him.

Never too overwhelmed to be anxious, Martin starts to worry that Jon won’t like what he sees – Martin’s never had much of a problem with his body, but it’s impossible to go through life without picking up on how other people perceive it, and he knows enough to be self-conscious about it. He’s self-conscious about everything.

But then Jon’s gaze migrates up to meet his eyes, his hands ghosting up Martin’s sides, and he breathes a soft sigh. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?” he asks, as if it’s normal, as if it’s a given. “Can’t believe I never realized before.”

His face flushing dark and hot, Martin presses his lips together and looks at the floor, prepared to mumble something modest and move past it, but Jon tucks two fingers beneath his chin and guides his face back up. Jon’s eyes are dark and deep and smoldering and so, so sincere as he tilts his head to the side and gives Martin the softest smile he’s ever seen. 

“I mean it,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss Martin again, slow and deliberate. The hand that isn’t holding Martin’s chin migrates up from his waist to rest at the side of his chest, thumb rubbing deftly over his peaked nipple. 

Martin believes him, is the thing. Perhaps it’s to do with the dizzy feeling in his head, the rush of being kissed and touched like he’s something important, but Martin really does believe him.

Maybe that’s why he suddenly feels bold enough to put his hands on Jon’s hips, pull away from the kiss just a hair’s breadth and ask, “Can I see you?”

It takes a second for Jon to understand his meaning, and then he just nods and begins undoing the buttons of his shirt, all business. Martin watches, mouth dry, as each inch of skin is newly exposed, and then surges forward as soon as he’s finished, intent on getting Jon’s pants off with his own hands. He makes quick work of it, kneeling to shimmy the fabric down Jon’s legs – he’s so thin, and still his pants manage to be just this side of too tight. Martin has spent a lot of time being thankful for that.

When Jon’s pants are out of the way, Martin rather abruptly realizes that he’s on his knees, only a few inches and a thin layer of cotton separating his face from Jon’s half-hard cock. He looks up at Jon’s face, hesitant and questioning, before realizing this is a desire he likely needs to verbalize. 

“I'd like to… if that's alright?” he asks, leaning in almost imperceptibly. “With my mouth, I mean?”

As far as verbalization, it could be worse, Martin thinks. Jon seems to agree, because he doesn’t ask for clarification, only stares for a few seconds and then nods his head with a quiet hum of permission. Martin hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Jon’s boxer briefs and pulls them down in one slow, smooth movement, throwing them backward over his shoulder in a move that may or may not be calculated specifically to get a reaction from Jon.

Jon huffs out a sharp sigh, but Martin looks up at his face and sees him rolling his eyes with a fond smile. Before he can have the chance to make a snide comment about it, Martin leans forward and starts mouthing along the length of his shaft, coaxing him to full hardness with hot, messy kisses. It’s a heady feeling for Martin, knowing that he’s making this happen, but he doesn’t let that throw him off his game.

He reaches to rub hand up and down the length of Jon’s calf, wraps the other around the base of his cock, and takes the head between his lips. Tonguing over the very tip, Martin relishes the taste of him, lets out a soft breath of a moan before taking him deeper, hollowing his cheeks. Jon’s reaction is instantly gratifying, a guttural groan and fingers twisting into Martin’s hair.

Martin pulls back the few inches necessary to let Jon’s cock slip out of his mouth so he can talk. “You can fuck my mouth,” he whispers a bit hoarsely. Jon looks uncertain, so Martin adds with a touch more confidence, “I want you to.”

And then he leans forward again, takes Jon’s cock in his mouth and looks up at him imploringly. Jon tightens his hold in Martin’s hair and thrusts forward once, tentatively, and Martin’s eyes flutter closed as he releases an indulgent breath, possibly played up for Jon’s benefit but definitely coming from the heart.

Thankfully, Jon takes it for the encouragement it is, slowly thrusting in deeper until the head of his cock hits the back of Martin’s throat. Martin swallows around him, flexing his tongue as much as he can, and his hands migrate up Jon’s legs to his ass, taking one cheek in each hand and squeezing lightly. Jon pulls out shallowly and bucks back into the wet heat of Martin’s mouth, grunting low in his throat.

“Martin,” he mumbles distractedly. Martin hums pleasantly around his cock, the vibrations eliciting another aborted movement of Jon’s hips. He sighs, disentangling his fingers from Martin’s curls to graze knuckles down his cheek, and continues, “You’re so lovely.”

The combination of the praise and the fact that Jon is no longer holding him back makes Martin greedy, impatient, and he surges forward, taking Jon all the way to the root in one swift motion. Jon makes a punched-out little sound of combined shock and pleasure, knees shaking. Martin doesn’t give him much time to recover before he bobs his head a bit, taking the initiative to show Jon how it’s done.

“You really –,” Jon cuts himself off with a sharp breath, exhales slowly, tries again, “really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” Martin looks up at him through his lashes and hums an affirmative as he relaxes his throat and sinks down again, and Jon lets out a fond, breathless chuckle. 

“Shouldn’t be surprised,” he mutters, his tone tinged with self deprecation. “This is what you do, isn’t it? You’re always giving, always putting others first, even when – _fuck_ – when they don’t deserve it. I bet you’d be perfectly satisfied if I just let you suck me off, came down your throat and left you hanging, and you’d probably take the time to make me a cup of tea before even touching yourself.”

Martin whines low in his throat, blinking up at him, unsure what to think about the hypothetical. He is fairly certain Jon isn’t actually going to do that, but the prospect is evoking mixed feelings. It’s thrilling because it _is_ what he does best, it would be comfortable and familiar and he would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t fucking it up, and that’s all besides the fact that the very notion of swallowing Jon down like that is intensely appealing. Then again, it’s horrifying in equal measure, thinking about the pure rejection of it, and what it says about him that it’s entirely true.

Jon pets his cheek with a shaking hand as Martin continues sucking his cock like he was made for it, some dark part of him thinking that maybe Jon’s offer to take care of his issue is conditional, that maybe if he doesn’t do a good enough job, Jon really will leave. He knows it’s silly, it’s his anxious, insecure brain running away from him, but he can’t just make those thoughts _stop._

It seems that Jon can sense the way that Martin’s gears are turning despite the fact that he doesn’t falter in his ministrations, because he brushes Martin’s hair out of his face with the lightest touch, murmuring softly to him to bring him out of his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Martin, don’t worry,” he says, strained but sincere as Martin swallows around his cock. “I’ll take good care of you, give you everything you need, everything you deserve. _God,_ you feel so good, _fuck._ You’re doing so well, taking me so nicely.”

Overwhelmed, Martin closes his eyes again, a flimsy defense against the unfamiliar praise, and Jon allows it without comment, for which Martin is thankful. He can take in the stream of compliments pouring from Jon’s mouth while Martin sucks him off, so long as he doesn’t have to look at Jon while he does it.

It’s not long before Jon twists fingers tightly in his hair and tugs, lightly, but hard enough that Martin gets the message and pulls off of his cock with a heavy breath. He wipes the spit off his lower lip with the back of his hand before looking up at Jon quizzically.

“I don’t want to come yet,” Jon explains, soft and bordering on apologetic. He extends a hand to help Martin to his feet, waits until Martin is standing level with him before continuing, “I want to make you feel good.”

“How d’you plan to do that?” Martin asks, his voice low and rough from his throat being used. He tries to put on a coy smile, taking advantage of the time he has where he can still speak and act with the minimal amount of smoothness that he can claim to possess.

That time is rapidly waning, he realizes as Jon trails fingers down the center of his chest, past his navel, over the soft, dark swell of his stomach to cup him gently between his legs. Martin’s mouth goes dry; he trembles, spreading his thighs, allowing Jon better access. 

Jon takes full advantage, crowds Martin back against the table, free hand wrapped around Martin’s waist. “I was thinking,” he says in a velvety voice, “I could work you over with my hands, get you nice and ready before I fuck you.” He pauses, blinks twice before adding, “If that’s what you want.”

“God, Jon, I want you to do literally anything to me,” Martin groans wretchedly. “I’m yours, alright? No holds barred. If this is something we’re doing, then I want – I want all of it.”

Stepping back, Jon licks his lips – an absent, unthinking gesture on his part, but one that Martin will be thinking about for at least the next month. “Alright, then,” says Jon, “turn around, will you?”

Martin appreciates the manners of it – something about the way Jon usually barks orders at him, even if it does feed some depraved part of him, wouldn’t translate well into this setting. Or at least, it’s not what he wants right now. 

He’s cried during sex before, once from overstimulation and a few times from shame, and the former is the only experience he would willingly repeat. He might entertain the possibility of asking Jon to explore the other side of this coin in future, but for now – for now, he needs a soft voice and a gentle hand. He does what’s asked of him, turns around as heat builds in the pit of his stomach at the thought of what’s to come, of Jon touching him and tending to him so thoroughly that it brings him to tears.

That part will come later. What Jon does right now is place a tentative hand on Martin’s shoulder and push him, so gently it may be closer to a nudge, guiding him to bend over the table. Martin’s subconscious mind is expecting a cold surface, braced for the press of his sensitive nipples into the hard plastic of the table, until he realizes that Jon’s orchestrated it perfectly so Martin’s sweater serves as a buffer, softening the sensation. 

He _watched_ Jon do that, he remembers, but it’s no surprise that he didn’t notice this before; his mind was more focused on Jon’s long, thin fingers and the tendons flexing in his forearms. Now that he knows what Jon was doing with it, the foresight and the care behind the gesture hit him rather suddenly, overwhelming his emotions. Martin bites his lip to stifle an embarrassing sound and folds his arms in front of him just to have someplace to bury his face.

Jon steps in close, close enough that Martin can feel the warmth radiating from his skin and the length of his cock pressing into his hip, and a shiver runs through him in response. One of Jon’s hands comes to rest on Martin’s lower back, a solid and reassuring presence, while the other moves to caress and stroke along his thighs, his waist, the swell of his ass. When Jon taps the inside of his knee, Martin whimpers softly but doesn’t hesitate to part his legs further for him.

“There we are, sweetheart,” Jon purrs, trailing his hand ghost-like along Martin’s skin until he reaches his cunt. He slips past the neatly trimmed thatch of dark curls to dip two fingers between Martin’s folds, stroking along his inner lips with a contented hum. “God, you’re so gorgeous,” he whispers, nigh on reverent, “all for me.”

Martin tries to steady his breathing, but he chokes on his own spit when Jon circles a fingertip around his hole slowly. Even without being able to see his face, Martin is positive that Jon is working with purpose, rather than dragging it out to torment him. He pulls away briefly and Martin cries out from the loss of contact, twists his head around to see what he’s doing.

Jon is casting his eyes around the room, the confusion in his expression bordering on worry, and it takes Martin a long moment to realize what he’s looking for.

“It’s, er – the cabinet over by the door, on the right, third drawer down.”

Straightening his back, Jon goes where Martin has directed him. Martin follows the movements with his eyes, turning his head as Jon crosses to the other side of him, resting his chin on his arms and taking in the sight. It’s a good picture, his hips swaying slightly the way they always do, but so much better now that his clothes aren’t in the way, because it’s all skin on display, long, lean lines and scars and beautiful ripples of wiry muscle.

He bends over to reach the drawer, and Martin’s breath catches in his throat, and he just beams, soaking it all in. It’s perhaps a bit embarrassing when Jon turns around and sees the dopey look on his face, but that’s so far from his mind right now. Jon returns to take his place behind Martin, slicks up his fingers without any preamble.

“Why do you have this here?” he asks, setting the lube to the side, slipping his fingers down between Martin’s legs, free hand moving to pet his hip gently.

“Used some of these drawers when I was staying here,” Martin explains, his voice strained as he arches into Jon’s touch. “Not a lot of space in the other room. This one has more empty cabinets. Plus I, erm… I was always a bit worried someone would go through my things. Thought it was – I don’t know, smart? To take the things I’d prefer people not see, keep them in here instead of over with the rest of my stuff.”

“You know what you are, Martin?” Jon asks idly, rubbing his thumb up and down Martin’s swollen, sensitive lips before ghosting feather-light over his clit. Martin tenses up all over in response to the question or the touch or some combination of the two, pulling a sharp inhale from Jon, who graciously chooses to explain himself without an actual answer. “You’re an absolute wonder. Clever and dependable and compassionate and driven and so, _so_ unappreciated – much of that’s my fault, of course, but I intend to quite _thoroughly_ make up for it.”

Squirming from the praise and throbbing with need, Martin attempts to push back, to coax Jon’s finger inside his hole. “Jon, please,” he whines shamelessly.

Jon has mercy on him, pushes one long finger into his pussy and rubs up against a spot inside him. “You like that?” he asks gently as he begins to fuck his slick finger in and out, slow and sure and easy. “That feel good?”

In any other circumstance, Martin would roll his eyes, might even snap at Jon for asking such a dreadfully obvious question. In any other circumstance, Martin would assume Jon was making fun of him or asking a rhetorical question just to watch him stumble over the answer, just to make him feel stupid. As it is, he can’t do much of anything by way of cognitive processing, much less formulating a response.

This is especially true as Jon pulls his finger out entirely, only to press two back in before Martin can even be upset about the loss. He resumes the steady rhythm of before, fucking into Martin, filling him so perfectly. Every twist or crook of his fingers pulls sweet little moans from Martin, and one particularly wicked thrust forces a high keening sound from him.

“Oh, Martin, you magical thing,” Jon murmurs, repeating the action to elicit the same response. “You make such pretty sounds for me. I could play with you for hours.”

Martin groans, a miserable, drawn-out sound that can’t be called _words_ by any stretch of the imagination, but Jon gets the idea. “That’s alright, love, I won’t be so cruel,” he says, a fond smile audible in his voice. “You’re so good, you deserve to be fucked exactly how you want it.”

Another wrecked noise claws its way out of Martin’s throat, a soft, hoarse thing, and he clenches down on Jon’s fingers, slightly embarrassed but much too far gone to do anything about it. Jon speeds up a bit, fucking in and out of Martin’s hot, slick hole, moving his other hand in small, soothing circles on Martin’s back.

“You like that, don’t you? Like to hear how good you are,” Jon muses in a wondering tone, as if Martin is the most interesting thing in the world, as if discovering these things about him is nothing short of a delight. “You _are_ good, Martin, all eager and open for me, ready to be fucked. Such a sweet little thing, and you should hear it all the time."

Martin whimpers. Jon’s voice is unbelievably hot even on a bad day, and this is – to put it lightly, it’s a _very_ good day. He speaks low and slow and soft, like music, like being wrapped up in silk, like a balm on Martin’s wounded feelings from being yelled at. Honestly, by this point, Martin hardly even remembers Jon yelling. All he knows is Jon’s fingers fucking him open and Jon’s voice in his ear and the fire spreading under every inch of his skin.

"Love how nicely your pussy takes my fingers,” Jon says, scissoring them to make his point, huffing out a shaky breath when Martin moans in response. “You'd take anything, wouldn't you? Lovely little slut, you are, so desperate to be filled."

A whine bubbles up from Martin’s chest, sandwiched by consonants, approximating something that sounds like _Fuck_ to a well-trained ear. Jon chuckles fondly, his free hand settling on Martin’s waist, thumb rubbing back and forth over his lower back. He pushes into Martin’s soft flesh with all the pressure of a deep tissue massage, momentarily awestruck by the way his skin pales and floods again with color.

Apparently, his distraction comes through in the movements of his fingers, because Martin groans and pushes back against him, wiggling his hips to entice Jon to go harder. Jon smirks and gives him what he wants, fucking in and out of him with increased fervor.

"It’s precious, how you shake and moan for me, so incredible,” he whispers as Martin clenches down on his fingers. “Makes me want to take you apart every single day, finger you open just like this until you’re crying and begging for me, and then fuck you nice and hard."

He punctuates the thought with a devious movement of his wrist, and Martin whimpers in response. "Is that what you've been hoping for, Martin?” Jon asks, just a hint of a teasing lilt to his tone, coloring the edges of all his sincerity and the heat of his desire. “Is that why you've been so attentive, so reliable, so kind? Were you always just waiting for me to bend you over a table and repay you for all your hard work?"

"No, God no," Martin gasps, rushing to assure Jon that he hasn’t been using him, _manipulating_ him like that, even if Jon didn’t really mean it. "Only wanted to – _ah, fuck_ – to help. Wanted to make you happy."

"Oh, and you _have,"_ Jon coos, adding a third finger and fucking them into Martin, thumb rubbing over his clit with every thrust. "You know I was just afraid to let you in, afraid to trust you, afraid of how badly I wanted you.” 

Suddenly, Martin realizes there are tears in his eyes, threatening just at the precipice of falling. It’s better than overwhelmed crying from stimulation, and _leagues_ better than shameful crying from self-loathing; these are too-good-to-be-true tears, everything-I-ever-wanted tears, touch-me-forever tears. With a particularly sharp thrust of Jon’s fingers, Martin reaches a peak and shakes apart, coming with a choked moan, hot tears spilling from his eyes.

“Perfect,” Jon whispers, full of wonder, “so perfect. Such a good boy for me.”

The cry that comment pulls from Martin is an open, breathless thing, and Jon latches onto it immediately, dropping his voice to a velvet murmur. “That’s right, love, you’re my _good_ boy. I should keep you here like this always, my Martin. So filthy and hungry for it, just _made_ to be fucked.” 

The hand on Martin’s back feels like a white-hot brand, fingers splayed out and holding him down. Martin wonders what it would take for Jon’s fingerprints to press into his skin permanently. He bows his back as much as he can, which is not much at all, just enough to amplify the intensity of that heat, to set off more sparks in his nerve endings and let out another moan.

Jon shushes him, calming rather than patronizing. “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart, making all those pretty little sounds, taking it so well. You look like a dream, spread open on my fingers, so gorgeous, I could just – God, Martin, you’re so beautiful.”

Whining helplessly, Martin squirms under Jon’s ministrations. “Jon, fuck,” he mumbles desperately, “please fuck me, _Jon,_ please.”

“Needy little thing,” Jon breathes, pulling his fingers from Martin’s hole with a lewd, slick sound. “You’re not satisfied until you have a cock in you, is that it? Want me to fuck you properly, fill your lovely pussy just right? You deserve it, Martin, anything you want, for being such a good, _sweet_ boy for me.”

The praise draws a rapturous sigh from Martin, and Jon pauses a moment, warmth flooding his chest. “Martin?” he says, quiet and tentative, abruptly, drastically different from moments before. He leans down to catch Martin’s eye, to ask with all the somber sincerity in the world, “Is this alright?”

“It’s perfect, Jon,” is Martin’s immediate reply, eager and earnest. “So perfect, _please_ don’t stop, Jon, please, _please_ fuck me.”

“Do you, er – condom?” Jon asks lamely.

“In the drawer, if you need,” says Martin, “but I, ah – _I_ don’t. I mean, there’s nothing to worry about on my end.”

“You sure? What about –?”

“I’m sure, it’s all taken care of,” Martin promises him fervently, “but it’s up to you. If you’d be more comfortable with one, then that’s fine. I want you to do whatever makes you feel good.”

A warm smile spreads slowly across Jon’s face, his eyes sparkling with unvoiced emotion. He moves in even closer, his breath dancing across Martin’s skin, and presses a firm kiss to his forehead. “I feel good about this,” he whispers, then straightens up and pulls back to resume his work.

Martin whimpers when Jon’s cock brushes against his hip, hard and hot. Jon huffs out a soft breath and steps behind him, taking a moment to slick his cock before rubbing the tip between Martin’s folds and finally, finally lining himself up with Martin’s entrance. 

“There you are, my lovely boy,” Jon murmurs, stroking tender paths down Martin’s sides as he sinks into the tight heat of his cunt. “So soft and open for me. Fuck, Martin, I want to taste every square centimeter of you. I want to just spend hours, _days_ making you feel how loved you are. I would kiss your neck – suck on your tits – lick and bite all over your stomach and your thighs, so plush and perfect for me, so delicious, fuck.”

Martin whines, squeezes down on Jon’s cock, tries to shift his hips to fuck himself back on it. Jon’s fingers dig into his waist, a grounding pressure, each point of contact like the satisfying throb of a deep bruise, and he pulls out slowly, torturously, before fucking back into him with deliberate force.

Jon’s set a pace, hard and deep but slow enough that Martin can feel every inch of movement like striking a match on his nerves. He reaches up with one hand to pet Martin’s hair tenderly. “Jon,” Martin mumbles, and everything after that falls into a slurring, stammering mess.

“What was that, love?” Jon asks softly, and he’s not being smug, he _means_ it, truly just wants to know what Martin has to say. Doesn’t realize that he’s fucking the words right out of him, that Martin can hardly form a coherent thought right now, much less a sentence. 

He tries anyway, desperate to give Jon what he wants, to be good for him. “Mm, s’good,” he manages, though it’s not what he’d meant to say before, and his next attempt at speech breaks off into a high moan. He reaches back to grab a hold of Jon’s hand, squeezing his fingers tight as he relocates his thoughts. It’s a few good moments later when he finally remembers, and the words leave him without a second thought: “Love you, Jon, I love you.”

All of Jon’s breath escapes him and he falters in his rhythm, hips stuttering. He grips Martin’s hand tightly, takes hold of the other one for good measure. It’s perhaps a bit of an awkward position, their hands clasped over the small of Martin’s back – on appearances, it’s almost as if Jon is restraining him, but the reality is more than what it looks.

“Oh, _Martin,”_ Jon murmurs. “I love you, of course. How could I not? My magnificent, beautiful boy.”

As he speaks, Jon collects himself enough to resume the movements of his hips, fucking into Martin, building speed and force enough to knock little gasps and whines from him with each thrust. He wraps an arm around Martin’s waist, drapes himself over Martin’s back and plays soft fingertips over his swollen clit as he fucks him breathless and speechless.

Martin bucks forward into his touch, then back onto his cock, the sensation overwhelming no matter which way he moves. He hardly manages to pant out a quick, “Jon, Jon, I’m –,” before he cuts himself off with a sharp cry as he tips over the edge again.

Jon grunts at the way Martin’s cunt spasms and tightens around him, but doesn’t slow his thrusts, fucking him through his orgasm rough and fast. “God, you feel amazing,” he says hotly, his voice ringing in Martin’s ears. “So incredible when you come on my cock, fuck, your pussy is so hot and tight and perfect, _you’re_ perfect. My good, _good_ boy.”

“Fuck,” Martin whimpers, screwing his eyes shut tight as Jon’s cock drags against his increasingly sensitive walls, just enough delicious friction, just this side of torturous. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Yes, love, go on,” says Jon between fast, heavy breaths, gripping Martin’s hips with a bruising force. “Tell me how it feels, Martin, let me hear it.”

“Jon,” Martin gasps out, “so full, God, love how your cock fills me up. Feels so good, so deep, Jon – _Jon.”_

Leaning down, Jon places a soft, chaste kiss on Martin’s shoulder, followed by several far less chaste kisses, biting and sucking a path up to his neck. “Fuck, I’m so close,” he mutters, breath hot on Martin’s skin. “Do you think you can take one more? Make all those pretty little sounds, squeeze my cock just right, be good for me and make me come?”

“Shit, please, please,” Martin begs breathlessly, “I want it, Jon, please touch me.”

Snaking his hand around again, Jon slips between Martin’s folds, taking his clit between two fingers and stroking him up and down. Martin clenches around him, whines and grinds back against him, pushing him deeper, harder. Jon’s cock pistons into him relentlessly, hitting a spot deep inside him that sets off sparks behind his eyes and knocks the breath right out of his lungs, over and over again.

He doesn’t stop murmuring filthy things in Martin’s ear, rubbing circles around his clit and over the plump lips of his cunt, fucking into him at the perfect angle. Martin shudders when Jon nips gently at his earlobe, runs the tip of his tongue along the shell of his ear. Then Jon's molten-chocolate voice tells him, "Come for me," and that's all it takes to send Martin over the edge with a sharp gasp.

Jon’s orgasm follows almost immediately, wrung from him by the inexorable pressure of Martin’s inner walls. He turns his face into the back of Martin's head and stifles his own cries of pleasure in the thick curls, a series of muffled, bitten-off moans in time with the rhythm of his cock as he comes, spilling inside Martin in several long pulses.

Panting through the aftershocks, Jon nuzzles into the juncture of Martin’s shoulder and neck, noses up behind his ear. “Mm," he hums contentedly, rolling his hips one last time to press just that much deeper into Martin’s hot cunt before it becomes too much. He hisses at the painful stimulation of his oversensitive cock and pulls out slowly, gently, a hand trailing down Martin’s spine light as a feather.

One step around the side of the table and Jon crouches down slightly to bring his face level with Martin’s. Martin turns his head to the side and rests his cheek on his arm, looking at Jon with a blissed-out look in his eyes. Jon leans in without thinking, a hand settling on Martin's shoulder, and presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead. Martin lets his eyes slide shut at the comforting warmth of the contact, just for a moment, before Jon pulls away and Martin shivers, blinking up at him.

“Jon,” he says, simple and confident.

“Martin,” Jon replies.

Martin takes a deep breath, takes stock of his body, winces slightly at his stiff joints and the wet mess between his legs. "So," he says, pushing up on his hands and rocking back onto his feet, swaying slightly. Jon catches him with a hand on his back, steadies him and gives him a look of mild concern, which Martin ignores in favor of finishing his thought. "I meant it, you know."

Jon tenses up all the way to his fingertips, spasming against Martin's back. "What, exactly, did you mean?" he asks, high-pitched with nerves. "I want to be sure we’re understanding each other, is all."

"Everything. All of it," Martin declares easily. "I mean, it's not like I could take it back, even if I wanted to. You’d probably just burn a hole in me with your scary eyes and keep asking me questions until I told you the truth."

"Oh," Jon sighs, looking off to the side as his cheeks flush hot. “Sorry. You know, you could. If you wanted to.” He takes a slow, deep breath and gathers his words, lifts his head again to look sincerely into Martin’s eyes. “I just mean… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, Martin, and I don’t want you to feel like you _can’t_ – or like you _have_ to – Christ. I’m saying, if you wanted to pretend this never happened, I would drop it, no questions asked.”

His eyes are deep and warm and earnest and anything but scary. Martin wrings his hands nervously, tries not to think about the fact that they’re both still fully nude. “Don’t drop it,” he pleads, brows drawn up and together. “I like that it happened. I want it to happen again, if that’s what you want. And I meant – I meant it when I said…”

Trailing off, Martin frowns and shivers – vulnerable down to his bones, in every literal and figurative sense. He folds his arms across his chest for half a second before quickly deciding it’s not enough cover and moving to grab his clothes, dressing as he prepares himself to bravely push through what he wants to say. 

Jon just watches him the whole time, shrewd and silent, which doesn’t help much. While Martin is pulling on his pants, he looks up at Jon’s face, gives a jerky nod toward the other man’s clothing, and Jon thankfully gets the message and follows his lead.

Eventually, Martin musters up the requisite confidence to tell Jon, “I meant it when I said I love you.” Jon glances up from buttoning his shirt, meets Martin’s eyes, looks like he’s going to say something but Martin beats him to it. “It’s okay if you – if you don’t, I mean, if you didn’t mean it, I understand. It’s just… I’ve loved you for years, Jon, and if this is – a thing, then I think we need to be on the same page in that regard. So, if – if we’re – not, then you just need to tell me, I won’t be upset. I mean, I won’t be angry with you.”

Shoulders slumping as anxious tension melts from his muscles, Jon heaves a sigh of relief. “No, I meant it,” he says. “I meant it. I love you, I do, it’s just – I’m sorry I’ve been so obtuse. I was… scared.”

“That’s alright. We can be scared together.” Martin smiles at him, a lopsided quirk of his lips and a crinkle around his eyes, and then ventures as casually as he can: “Do you want to maybe grab dinner? I mean, I need a shower first, definitely, but… er, I think. I think we should probably. Talk about this some more.”

Jon swallows hard, nods his head, steps in closer to Martin, lifts both hands to cup his face and kiss him, slow and deep and tender. He pulls away in slow motion, lips lingering on soft lips, and brushes his thumb along the curve of Martin’s cheekbone. “Yes, Martin, I’d like that,” he whispers, voice breaking just a bit. “Anywhere you want, my treat. You deserve it.”


End file.
